His Clockwork Canary

intense than any sexual desire he’d experienced in the last several years.

It boggled the mind. Boggled the mind and vexed his patience. Yet whilst pacing the connected corridors of the train, it occurred to Simon that he was not alone in his suffering. His companion had also excused herself, frequently escaping to the primitive yet functional public loo. Either she had a minuscule bladder or she too needed space to clear her head and cool her desires. There was no mistaking her sexual interest, even though she tried to hide it. If the Canary was experiencing even a modicum of Simon’s discomfort, he would be a happy man. A spectacularly delirious man. The solution to his dilemma was suddenly clear. The more miserable her mood, the happier his.

He reentered the compartment, surprised to find her wearing dark-tinted spectacles and fumbling with the yo-yo she’d purchased from Thimblethumper. “A little late in the evening for sunshades,” he remarked whilst closing the door.

“I have a blinding headache,” she said, winding the string around the middle of the disks. “Light, whether natural or artificial, intensifies the throbbing.”

Frowning at her pained expression, Simon reached up to douse the already dim sconce. “Then let there be darkness.”

“No! I mean, that isn’t necessary. The sunshades suffice and I don’t wish to inconvenience you should you wish to continue your drafting.”

Since the Canary had returned her rapt attention to the Book of Mods, and then to jotting notes in a journal, Simon had passed much of the time executing freehand drawings in his sketchbook—a design he’d been contemplating as an alternative to a mechanical lift. He’d yet to work out the kinks in his “mobile staircase,” and his mind was not fully invested, but anything was better than pondering Project Monorail. Would he always connect his pride-and-joy design to his father’s death? Would he always feel responsible for the disastrous explosion? Turning his thoughts from morbid images, he focused on the Canary’s miserable efforts. “What are you trying to do?”

“A trick.”

“Perhaps you should perfect the basics first.”

“I know the basics.”

“Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself.”

Her head jerked up, and though he could not see her eyes, he was pretty sure she was glaring. “Just because you are an expert . . .”

Simon raised a brow as she trailed off. He had indeed mastered the art of the yo-yo as a young boy. “How did you know—”

“I assumed. Given your arrogant attitude and the fact that, by trade, naturally you would be intrigued by the workings.”

“Mmm.”

“No matter,” Willie said, shrugging off the moment. She glanced at her time cuff, something she did a lot. “We’ll soon be arriving at Waverley.”

As she pushed off the wall and started to pocket the yo-yo, Simon moved in behind her and wrapped his hand over hers and the toy. “It’s all in the technique,” he said close to her ear.

There was a moment of silence in which he noted her ink-stained hands, the scent of hair freshly soaped, and a slight, almost imperceptible, shudder of her body. A moment of delicious sexual tension . . . followed by a swift jab to Simon’s gut. Damned if her elbow didn’t strike hard and true.

“You may be worldly in matters of free and diverse love, but I, sir, as mentioned before, am not interested.” Agitated, the Canary reached up and snagged her coats. “That is not to say I judge. I do not. To each his own,” she said whilst pulling on extraneous layers. “But I do not appreciate your attempts to shock, intimidate, or seduce, or whatever the hell your intention. I am here, with you, for one reason only, Darcy. To get a story. A story for which you will be handsomely compensated.”

Simon bristled. First of all, he would not be the only one benefiting from this tabloid serial. The Informer would profit banking on the Darcy name, and the Canary would gain even more recognition and glory.

Second: How long would the infuriating pressman persist with this boyish ruse? And why? The pretense and lies did not bode well and he rankled at the thought of being made a fool. Again. Simon backed away, but continued to turn the screws. “I once knew a girl whose little brother performed yo-yo tricks with ease. A yo-yo passed on to him from the mother, a gesture that injured the girl’s heart, as she coveted her mother’s yo-yo . . . and approval. I promised to teach that girl the proper technique that would enable her to master many tricks, but I never got the chance.”

The Canary tugged her cap over her shaggy hair just as the Flying Scotsman hissed and screeched to a full stop. “Disappointed you, did she?”

Simon nabbed his own belongings, intrigued and incensed. “Indeed,” he said, disembarking on the kid’s heels.

Hoofing it through the bustling station, heavy bag in tow, the Canary gave Simon her back. “Something tells me the feeling was mutual.”

•   •   •

It had been many a year since anyone had discombobulated Willie so thoroughly. She was confident and competent and, out of necessity, wily. Because of an unfortunate series of events, she’d locked down her emotions years ago. Through practiced control and camouflaging trickeries, she had fooled the masses for a decade. A consummate actress, she’d successfully maintained a male persona, in part by engaging in a reclusive lifestyle. Her most frequent interactions were with her coworkers at the Informer, and prompted by professional envy, most of them kept their distance. Friendship was a foreign concept, so she was in no danger of having her cover blown due to slipping up with a chum. As a journalist, she typically narrowed her interviews to one personal visit. As a supporter of the underground efforts to garner equal rights for all Freaks, she corresponded with like-minded souls through coded Teletypes or via occasional meetings in the nearest skytown. Even then, she adopted yet another costume and persona. She thrived on anonymity. It kept her liberated and employed. Kept her motivated and useful. It kept her brother safe and her father from landing in a mental ward or poorhouse. She would not endanger any one of those things by admitting her true identity to Simon Darcy.

Somehow the man had deduced who she was, and it galled that he was toying with her. Still, even if he out-and-out called her on the ruse, she would fight for all she was worth to deny the truth. As much as she would like to blast him face-to-face for jilting her because of her race and thereby tainting the love they once shared, the confrontation was not worth the cost.

Shoulders squared and back to the infuriating man, Willie hustled through Waverley Station, breaching the doors and moving onward toward Waverley Bridge—an iron-latticed thoroughfare that would lead them to Cockburn Street and beyond to High Street, also known as the Royal Mile.

A frigid wind and colossal snowflakes assaulted Willie as she hailed a conventional coach.

“Cockburn Hotel is within walking distance,” Simon said as he moved in beside her. “I reserved rooms —”

“We’re not staying at the Cockburn.”

“We’re not?”

Led by a blanketed horse, a hansom cab rolled in and Willie informed the coachman of their destination. Meanwhile Simon wordlessly took her valise and hoisted it up into the cab along with his. Further proof that he was aware of her gentler gender. She scrambled aboard before he could offer his hand—and raise the coachman’s brow. Once they were both seated and the coachman urged the horse forward, Willie divulged the data she’d traced from the Mod Tracker.

“I booked lodgings near St. Giles’ Cathedral on High Street,” she said whilst massaging her throbbing temples. “There’s a pub close by. Spirits & Tales. Filmore works there during the day, dispensing pints of ale and local ghost stories. I assume he patrols an underground passage at night, supposedly protecting the clockwork propulsion engine, but I do not know which passage. The section of Edinburgh known as Old Town is comprised of many wynds, closes, and vaults.”

“Considering you were alone with Thimblethumper for a scant few seconds, you learned much,” Simon said, sounding suspicious. “Anything else?”